


Channel 67

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, Frottage, M/M, Other, Sampala - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2591402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: we need wincest with sampala. we NEED it</p>
            </blockquote>





	Channel 67

**Author's Note:**

> A canon-divergent take on the scene with the Sampala from Changing Channels. I feel a little odd that this is the first thing I'm posting on here, but hey, go big or go home, right? This is cross-posted at my tumblr.

Dean’s rummaging through the trunk, digging for the container of holy oil he  _knows_  is in there. 

"Dean?" Sam’s disembodied voice sounds uncertain. 

"What?" he asks warily. 

"That, uh, feels really uncomfortable." 

Dean can feel the blush on his cheeks as he pulls the container out and slams the trunk shut. He runs his hand over Sa- over the car’s flank in apology. The metal is warm to the touch, and Dean loses himself in the caress for a moment until Sam, ah, speaks shakily.  _  
_

"Dean, what … what’re you doing?"

Startled, Dean clears his throat and jerks his hand away. “Sorry Sammy.” 

They shout (or in Sam’s case, honk) themselves hoarse to no avail. Dean leans back against the Impala’s front and runs his hands over his face.

"Dude," and Jesus, now Sam sounds irritated at him.

"WHAT Sam?" Dean growls.

"That’s…you’re kinda sitting on me, dude." 

"Shit," Dean. "Sorry man." He moves around to the door handle, about to pull it open when another thought hits him. "Is it okay if I-"

Sam huffs and the car rocks a little. “Yeah, Dean. Go ahead.”

Dean slides into the car - not sliding into his  _brother,_  no, definitely not - and settles against the seat with a sigh. This entire situation is fucked up, beginning to end, and now he’s trapped in some whacked out world by a vengeful Trickster god with a car for a brother.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back. Honestly, he means to think about a way out, he really does, but all he can smell is the warm scent of Baby’s leather combined with Sam’s Old Spice. Dean shifts a little, trying to ignore the slight swell of his cock. His Baby and his brother should be something out of a wet dream, would be in better circumstances, but his dick doesn’t seem to care about that. Still, he tries to force himself to run through lore in his head, aware that Sam is probably doing the same. 

"Dean," and damnit what the fuck is that tone - "You’re hard." Oh. 

"Smells like you," he grumbles, face red again and sitting up to make an effort in hiding his stupid dick. 

Sam is silent for a moment, and Dean can almost feel the tension. “It’s not just me, though, is it. It’s me, like this. Like the car.” 

He can’t answer that, not with his mouth gone dry and heart hammering in his throat. Trust Sam to put it together. 

"You think about fucking her, Dean?" Sam’s voice is low, dirty coming from the speakers so it surrounds him. 

"Sh-shut up, Sammy," he stutters and fumbles for the door handle, only to have the locks click shut. He tugs uselessly at it, before allowing his forehead to rest against the cool glass and shutting his eyes again. 

"Touch her, Dean. Run your fingers over our steering wheel." 

Dean is trembling, but reaches out, skimming tentative fingers over the scarred material with one hand, and then the other. He should feel ridiculous, he fucking does, but he’s still achingly hard. His hands lock tight on the steering wheel for a moment, then stroke back down, falling into his lap. 

"Good, Dean," Sam purrs through the speakers and the engine, causing Dean to let out a soft moan. "That’s good. Why don’t you get in the back?"

Dean practically scrambles out of the car, throwing himself in the back, and shivering a little when the locks click shut again. 

"Touch yourself, Dean," Sam commands softly. Dean unzips his jeans, raising up to push them and his boxers down his thighs. The smooth leather of the seat is warm against the curve of his ass and lower back, and it sends another dirty thrill up his spine. He groans low as he grips and strokes his cock, head tipping back to rest against the seat. "Spread your legs." 

Dean shifts, having to push his jeans down further to comply and stripping out of his shirt while he’s at it. He’s cradled in the Sam/Impala smell and warmth, stroking his cock, and listening as the engine rumbles. The sound combines with Sam’s voice as he talks - murmurs of approval, commands to go slower, faster, touch the leather doesn’t she feel good, don’t you dare come yet Dean, not til I say- until Dean is stroking himself tortuously slow, biting the knuckle of the other hand as he fights orgasm back.

"Stop, Dean," Sam says raggedly. Dean yanks his hand away, fisting them both at his sides to keep from touching himself. 

"Sam, please, oh fuck, Baby, please," Dean gasps, arching up from the seat and slowly sinking back down as his body drifts back from the edge. 

"Lube, in the glovebox," Sam starts, but Dean is already pulling himself up, leaning over to snatch it out, unable to close the glovebox from this angle but that’s not important now. 

"Turn around, knees on the seat, Dean." 

He spread his legs wide and ducks his head to fit, but does as he’s told. 

"Slick yourself up, Dean. I want you fuck her." 

The words tear a whimper from Dean’s lips, and he spreads lube over his cock, gripping the seat and thrusting against her. It’s good, so fucking good, and he thrusts fast. Sam orders him to use his hand, press his cock close against her, and his eyes twist shut at the pleasure when he does. 

"Close, Baby, please, m’so close," he begs, hips stuttering through the thrusts.

The engine revvs and Sam growls “Come” through the speakers. Dean pounds a fist against the leather as he shoots over the seat, fucking through the channel of his hand and the slick material, cursing and panting. He slumps to the side, pulling himself to lean against the door, and feeling the ache in his thighs from the ways his legs had been spread. 

"Jesus," he and Sam mutter together, the engine clicking off. 

"We’re doing this again. When I’m me and can actually touch you," Sam grumbles.

"You sure, Sammy?" Dean pants, grinning tiredly. "You’re real pretty like this." 

He flails as the car door opens, dumping him out on the ground and he can hear Sam laugh from inside the car.

"Bitch."

"Jerk." 


End file.
